


'Cause He's The Only One That I Have Ever Loved

by AgentBuzzkill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Marriage Proposal, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBuzzkill/pseuds/AgentBuzzkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's return is not exactly how he'd expected it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Cause He's The Only One That I Have Ever Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 03, which was basically to write a songfic. Because I am a masochist who cannot seem to write anything other than angsty post-Reichenbach fic, I chose the song "Love" by Daughter, which can be found here: http://youtu.be/S5MpD6b-bkE
> 
> It's a beautiful song, and I encourage you to listen to it and every other song by Daughter.

It wasn't as if he hadn't anticipated this. In fact, there had been a 37.8 percent chance of this exact scenario playing out. And as far as results of his fall three years prior went, this was one of the better ones. Everyone who was supposed to be living was still breathing.

And yet, in the grand scheme of things, Sherlock had forgotten how much this scenario would hurt. 

The rain was soft that night, a drizzle coating the streets and blurring the lights, the air heavy and cold, though the sweatshirt he wore hardly helped combat the chill in his bones. What he wouldn't give for his coat and scarf, two items that he suspected until now to still reside in the flat he stared up at. The curtains were drawn back, the light pouring out warm and inviting, a beacon that held him in place. Fixated. Hypnotized. Horrified.

A woman stood close to the window, a glass of red wine in her hand, staring out into the night. Sherlock supposed he didn't truly care if she spotted him, though he still ducked back directly under the window, where she was least likely to look. 

Her dress was simple yet elegant, the state of her hair and shoes suggesting she hadn't had much time after work to prepare for her date. Her job was hectic, yet the lines of her face did not betray stress or anger, rather natural aging. She had laugh lines. The bracelet she wore appeared to be cheap metal, yet the necklace adorning her neck was genuine metal and diamond. A gift, then, probably from a significant other. Her makeup was impeccable, proof of the steady hand usually attributed to those in the field of medicine, and her posture showed ease in her environment. She had been there before.

She had been in his flat before.

Before he could feel anything regarding that thought, John stepped up behind the woman, holding his own glass of wine and circling an arm around her waist. And wasn't John just everything Sherlock wanted to see at that moment? His hair had been recently cut, the old, neat military style, and though he had a few more wrinkles since Sherlock had last seen him, and there was still a phantom sadness on the edge of his eyes, he looked good. Happy. Content. He'd forsaken his usual jumpers for a dress shirt and black trousers, an ensemble he ususally only put on for dates. His position with the woman clearly showed an easy intimacy, him resting his head on her shoulder as she leaned into his touch. They both stared out at Baker Street, silent for a moment as Sherlock looked up at them, at his John who wasn't his anymore and this woman who'd become so familiar with what had used to be his home.

And then, John spoke, and though Sherlock could not hear him, he could read lips. 

Mary. 

Sherlock saw John's lips curl around the word, lips that had once smiled around Sherlock's name.

The woman, Mary, turned her head. John straightened and took her wine glass, appearing nervous and excited. He left Sherlock's view of the window, supposedly putting them down before returning to where Mary stood. 

Sherlock's heart climbed up and lodged in his throat, as John spoke words that Sherlock couldn't quite make out, not with John facing the woman directly. Though, based on her face, and her admittance of I love you, too, so easy, obviously said many times between them, a mutual assurance of love hovering between them, reminding Sherlock so much of what he had once had that at that moment he almost wished he hadn't faked his fall.

Because nothing had ever hurt as much as when John slowly slid down on one knee in front of Mary. 

Her smile told Sherlock everything he needed to know about how she would respond, and before he could see them embrace, before he could see John slip a ring onto Mary's finger, before he could see John lean in to kiss someone that wasn't him, Sherlock turned away. 

His face was blank, his footsteps sure, as he hunched over against the rain that had slowly grown from a drizzle to near-downpour in the time he'd spent watching...what had happened. He couldn't think about it, wouldn't think about it. He pressed aside the jealousy, the loneliness, the betrayal. Because that was it, wasn't it? It wasn't a betrayal, not really. He'd wanted John to be happy. He'd wanted John to find someone better, because John deserved better than a broken consulting detective.

But he could not stop seeing it in his mind. The way John had looked at her, with love in his eyes that Sherlock had only ever seen directed at him. He was aware of the anger inside of him, churning in his stomach as his mind conjured images of John kissing her, touching her, loving her as he had once loved Sherlock, chasing an orgasm with her name on his lips. Wrapping an arm around her late at night, as moonlight shone off their skin. It made him feel sick.

So Sherlock pulled up his hood, vaguely aware that his coat and scarf were probably not in 221B, that John had probably disposed of them as he'd disposed of Sherlock altogether. And it was no more than Sherlock deserved, wasn't it? To be deprived of even that, the warmth that reminded him of a home and a man that were no longer his. 

A nondescript black car pulled up next to him, slowing down to follow his pace as he walked against the rain. The passenger side window rolled down, and the oh so dulcet tones of his brother drifted out, voice raised against the noise of the rain.

"I've a room for you, a nearby hotel. Dry clothes, warm food, though I don't suppose you feel up to eating right now." Sherlock shot him an icy glare, though he stopped walking, and the pity in Mycroft's eyes was enough to force the grief up again, choking off any words Sherlock might have said. 

"Come, brother," Mycroft said softly. And Sherlock looked back, at the light of 221B reflecting off the pavement, reminding him that he had no home and nobody but his brother, that he was dead to everyone he'd come to know and--god forbid--love.

Sherlock got into the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms are always appreciated! Thank you for reading!


End file.
